Dementia

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a species
of flower known for its two-toned-lip-like petals—
hickory brown on top, rouge on bottom. Like my mother,
it bloomed in the Ninth Ward during winter
and has a heavy head, short stem, a smart mouth that trills
when hit with disrespectful storms. The genus often tossed
its foliage into the wind like a basket of shooting stars.
Dem-, people; en, within; –tia, passive ending.
When the sky pulls back its slip, you’ll find them
in the Fields of Worry slowly killing its people,
but don’t bother with that sugar. Instead, imagine
yourself at a gospel concert’s end, readying to sing
the last song, and when you open your mouth, nothing.
Have you never heard the legend? One whiff, no voice.
Nature’s little raccoon. It’s not sudden like a gash
of lightning or a hand jerking back from an irked stove.
The flower is patient; it honors the hunt.
It’s frivolous to fathom, but you’ve ferried this far.
We’re bronzed with such humble anatomy. Some bloodlines
are destined. Others stumble upon the field. All of this
was nary a barter. I couldn’t guess the summer
my mother journeyed where God grafted, the point nigh
and garnished with guilt. There are those that never
foot an inch near the union. I wonder if my mother
thought she belonged to those. I imagine it’s First Sunday,
the last Sunday before reaching the opening. She pulls on
her Spring White dress, mahogany on the lips, a mist
of perfume for armor. In the mirror, she studies
how her heels accentuate her slender feet.
Thank God, she breathes before smiling. Thank God.